


Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

by wishwellingtons



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/pseuds/wishwellingtons
Summary: Jamie's ready to take Malcolm home.





	Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zabbers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/gifts).



> A gift for Zabbers, and prompted by same!

Malcolm’s cuffs almost made origami. They were distractingly folded back in a geometric homage to their owner’s sleights of hand. White crispness and endless corners, thick French cotton right-angled to etiolated wrists and knuckles.

Jamie, by contrast, looked like he’d rolled up his sleeves to recently unblock a sink, possibly after gutting a chicken. His tie was jerked sideways to the angle at which you’d break someone’s neck, and the bottom three inches of his hair, his curls, looked like someone had been scruffing him while he paused in mid-blowjob. His suit was trying to kill him; his jacket would rather have been a suicide vest, and had been shut in a drawer to think about what it’d done. His anorak was breeding with a spider-plant that never saw daylight and now photosynthesised solely from the fear-light in backbenchers' eyes.

Jamie, upright, was watching Malcolm with the same fixed intensity as obscure Russian anarchists and/or hungry Battersea bloodhounds, and when Malcolm’s fluting hands moved, or his boss lent ineffably through the air to pursue some slight misdirection to its natural extinction and veldt-esque scatalogical kill, Jamie swayed too. Jamie hadn’t so much sauntered vaguely downwards as fallen, brutally, with his very first look at Malcolm. Now he naturally defied gravity. It was natural for Jamie, as Malcolm’s acolyte, to be eye-fucking and waltzing in every crowded room, to be rumpled and work-stained after a long hot night in the corridors of power and the monitors of public-sector hardware. Just one little scalp left to nibble and then, surely, bed.

But Malcolm, as ever when the bastard knew his audience was rapt in general and Jamie in particular ready to kill him for his cock, was toying with his prey. Jamie was so angry that, privately, Malcolm was starting to need a wank.

Jamie knew Malcolm’s bullshit eyes, the second reappraisal where the big fucker bent the air around himself and outlined his lying Machiavellian gaze in sincerity like eyeliner. He wondered why the fuck anyone believed in it, but it impressed him, all the same. He was doing it now to some unnecessary backbencher, garnishing his prey when they were only going to use him as roadkill. Jamie was visibly impatient. He loved nothing (four things) better than watching Malcolm turn some quisling centrist into a raj thali for eight, but this, this was pointless. Malcolm lent back slightly, detached a button and unslipped a Windsor in Westminster grey. Jamie’s eyes trained on his throat like a child’s felt-tip drawing of angry black lasers. His eyes were arrows. It was time to get the fuck home.

“I will have that drink,” Malcolm told Frankie, like the transcendent spinal torturer he was, and Jamie prepared to use his tie as a noose.


End file.
